Chicken Parm...
Dominik Hale
The kitchen in Derek’s apartment is smaller than mine, but it has everything I need. I’ve already sent him a text apologizing for the broken bed frame and promising to replace it. His response was a string of laughing emojis followed by “I don’t want to know.”
Smart man.
Aera is perched on a barstool at the counter, watching me with those intelligent eyes that miss nothing. She’s been quiet since her panic about the condom situation, processing everything in that analytical way of hers. I can practically see the gears turning in her mind.
It’s endearing. And exactly the distraction I need.
The violence still lurks beneath my skin, a constant reminder that there’s a threat out there. Someone who thinks they can use her against me. Someone who needs to learn what happens when you threaten what belongs to the Black Heart Killer.
Later. Hunt later. Right now, she needs normal. Needs to see you as something other than a monster.
I pull ingredients from Derek’s surprisingly well-stocked fridge. Chicken breasts, mozzarella, parmesan, and fresh basil. He won’t mind. And if he does, I’ll buy him groceries for a month.
“What are you making?” Aera asks, her voice still slightly uncertain.
“Chicken parmesan.” I set the ingredients on the counter, then reach for the apron hanging on a hook. It’s ridiculous: bright red with “Kiss the Cook” embroidered across the front in white letters. Exactly the kind of thing Derek would own, ironically.
Perfect.
I slip it over my head and tie it behind my back, very aware that I’m still shirtless. The apron strings sit low on my hips, just above the waistband of my jeans, which are hanging lower than usual because, well, I didn’t bother with a belt after our... activities.
When I turn around, Aera’s eyes go wide.
Got her.
“Something wrong, Little Lion?” I ask innocently, reaching for a knife and beginning to prep the chicken.
“You’re -” She clears her throat. “Whose apron is that?”
“A friend. It doesn’t matter. Thought it was appropriate, given that we broke his bed.” I glance at her with a smirk. “Think he’d appreciate the irony?”
She flushes, and I have to suppress a laugh. Even after everything we just did, after I claimed her on her office floor and then again on Derek’s now-destroyed bed, she’s still blushing at the mention of it.
Adorable.
I turn back to the chicken, butterflying the breasts with practiced precision. Surgery has made me excellent with a knife, my hands steady and sure as I work. I can feel her watching me, her gaze tracking the movement of my shoulders, the flex of my arms.
“You’re staring,” I observe, not looking up from my work.
“I’m not -” She stops, then huffs. “You’re doing this on purpose.”
“Doing what?” I glance at her with feigned innocence. “Making dinner?”
“You know what.”
I do. And it’s working beautifully. The tension from earlier is slowly draining from her shoulders, replaced by flustered arousal. Exactly what I wanted.
I set up my breading station: flour, beaten eggs, breadcrumbs mixed with parmesan and Italian herbs. The mechanical nature of cooking is soothing, giving my hands something to do that isn’t violent. That isn’t planning how I’m going to track down whoever left that note and make them suffer.
Focus. Be present. She needs this.
“Did you learn to cook from your mother?” Aera asks, clearly trying to distract herself.
The question hits an old wound, but I don’t let it show. “No. I taught myself. Cooking is just chemistry and precision. Follow the recipe, understand the reactions, execute properly.”
“That’s a very clinical way to describe it.”
“I’m a clinical person.” I dredge the first chicken breast through flour, then egg, then breadcrumbs. “Besides, it’s practical. Can’t rely on takeout forever.”
She’s quiet for a moment, and I can feel her studying me. “You’re good at it.”
“I’m good at most things that require steady hands and attention to detail.” I coat the second breast, then reach for the olive oil. “Surgery. Cooking. Killing. All the same basic principles.”
“Did you just compare making chicken parmesan to murder?”
“They both require precision.” I heat the oil in a pan, waiting until it shimmers before carefully placing the breaded chicken in. The immediate sizzle is satisfying. “The difference is the consequences of failure. Overcooked chicken is disappointing. A botched kill is messy.”
“You’re insane,” she says, but there’s affection in her tone.
“So you keep telling me.” I flash her a grin over my shoulder, and her breath catches.
The chicken sizzles in the pan, golden-brown and perfect. I flip them with practiced ease, then start on the sauce. Crushed tomatoes, garlic, basil, and a pinch of sugar to balance the acidity. Simple, classic, delicious.
“Can you hand me that wooden spoon?” I gesture toward the utensil holder near her.
She reaches for it, and when she hands it to me, our fingers brush. The contact sends a spark through me, and I see her shiver in response.
Still so responsive. Even after everything.
I stir the sauce, tasting it and adjusting the seasoning. The violence pulses in the back of my mind - find them, hurt them, make them pay - but I push it down. Not now. Not while she’s watching me with those wide eyes, still processing everything that’s happened.
“Why are you being so...” she trails off, searching for the word.
“Charming?” I supply, glancing at her with a raised eyebrow. “Domestic? Normal?”
“All of the above.”
“Because you need it.” I transfer the chicken to a baking dish, spooning sauce over each piece before topping them with mozzarella and parmesan. “You’ve had a traumatic few hours. Your desk is destroyed, you’ve discovered someone is watching us, you’ve had more orgasms than you can probably count, and you’re processing the possibility of pregnancy. The least I can do is make you dinner.”
She blinks at me, obviously confused.. “That’s... surprisingly thoughtful.”
“I can be thoughtful.” I slide the dish into the oven and set the timer. “When I’m not being a possessive sociopath.”
“You said it, not me.”
I laugh, wiping my hands on the ridiculous apron before moving around the counter to stand in front of her. She’s still perched on the barstool, which puts us almost at eye level.
“Feeling better?” I ask, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
“I don’t know what I’m feeling,” she admits. “Confused. Overwhelmed. Still slightly panicked about the no-condom thing.”
“We can still get Plan B,” I remind her. “The offer stands.”
“I know.” She worries her bottom lip between her teeth, and I have to resist the urge to lean in and bite it myself. “I just... I need to think about it.”
“Take your time.” I trace my thumb along her jawline, watching her eyes flutter closed. “We have seventy-two hours for Plan B to be effective. No rush.”
“Seventy-two hours,” she repeats. “Right. That’s... good to know.”
I can see her brain already calculating, analyzing. Probably running through every possible scenario and outcome. My brilliant, overthinking Little Lion.
“Stop thinking so hard,” I murmur, leaning in to press a soft kiss to her forehead. “Just be here with me.”
“I’m trying.” She opens her eyes, and the vulnerability there makes something in my chest ache. “It’s just a lot.”
“I know.” Another kiss, this one to her temple. “And I’m sorry. I wasn’t exactly rational earlier.”
“That’s an understatement.” But she’s smiling slightly now, some of the tension leaving her shoulders.
Good. That’s good.
I pull back, moving around the kitchen to clean up the breading station. The mechanical nature of washing dishes is soothing, giving my hands something to do while my mind works through the problem of this “fan.”
They’re watching us. Have been watching, based on the note. Which means they know where Aera works, possibly where she lives. They knew about David Chen, knew I was planning to desecrate him.
How? How are they getting this information?
The violence surges again, hot and immediate. I grip the edge of the sink, forcing myself to breathe through it.
Not now. Later. Hunt later.
“Dominik?” Aera’s voice is cautious. “You okay?”
“Fine.” The word comes out rougher than intended. I clear my throat and turn to face her, forcing a smile. “Just thinking.”
“About?”
About how I’m going to find whoever threatened you and make them suffer in ways they can’t imagine. About how I’m going to remove their heart while they’re still alive and watch the realization dawn in their eyes. About how I’m going to make sure no one ever calls you a toy again.
“About how ridiculous I look in this apron,” I say instead, gesturing to the “Kiss the Cook” embroidery.
She laughs, and the sound eases some of the violence in my veins. “You do look ridiculous. But also...” Her eyes drift down to where the apron ties sit low on my hips, and she flushes again.
“Also?” I prompt, moving back toward her with predatory grace.
“Nothing.” She tries to look away, but I catch her chin, forcing her to meet my eyes.
“Also, what, Little Lion?”
“Also really hot,” she admits in a rush, her cheeks flaming. “Happy?”
Delighted, actually.
“Very.” I lean in, brushing my lips against hers. “You’re adorable when you’re flustered.”
“I’m not flustered.”
“You’re very flustered.” I kiss her again, deeper this time, swallowing her small sound of surrender. “And it’s fucking adorable.”
She melts into me, her hands coming up to rest on my bare chest, and for a moment, everything else fades away. The threat. The violence. The constant vigilance. It’s just us, her warm and pliant against me, responding to my kiss like she was made for it.
Like she was made for me.
When I pull back, her eyes are glazed and her breathing is unsteady. “You’re dangerous.”
“I am,” I agree. “But never to you.”
“That’s not what I meant.” She shakes her head slightly, trying to clear it. “I meant... You make me forget things. Forget to be careful. Forget to think.”
“Good.” I press one more kiss to her forehead before moving to check on the chicken. “Thinking is the enemy, remember?”
“That’s a terrible philosophy.”
“It’s worked well for me so far.”
The timer goes off, and I pull the chicken from the oven. It’s perfect - golden cheese bubbling on top, sauce fragrant with garlic and basil. I plate two servings, adding a simple side salad, and bring them to the counter.
“Dinner is served,” I announce with mock formality.
She stares at the plate, then at me, then back at the plate. “You just made restaurant-quality chicken parmesan while shirtless in a ridiculous apron and somehow made it look effortless.”
“Years of practice.” I slide onto the barstool next to her, finally untying the apron and tossing it aside. “Eat. You need the calories after earlier.”
She takes a bite, and her eyes widen. “Oh my God.”
“Good?”
“Really good.” She takes another bite, practically moaning. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”
“Trial and error. Medical school didn’t leave much time for eating out, so I learned to make things I actually wanted to eat.” I take a bite of my own chicken, satisfied with the result. “Plus, cooking is relaxing. Gives me something to focus on that isn’t…”
“Murder?” she supplies.
“I was going to say work, but sure.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, and I watch her slowly relax. The food is helping, giving her body fuel to recover from the intensity of earlier. She needs rest, needs normalcy, needs -
My phone rings, shattering the peaceful moment.
I glance at the screen and curse under my breath. Hospital. Of course.
“Hale,” I answer curtly.
“Dr. Hale, sorry to bother you, but we have a situation.” It’s one of the ER attendings, voice tight with stress. “Motorcycle accident, severe chest trauma. We need you in surgery immediately. The patient is coding, and -”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” I interrupt. “Prep OR 3 and have my team standing by.”
“Thank you, Dr. Hale. We -”
I hang up before she can finish, already running through the likely scenarios in my mind. Chest trauma from a motorcycle accident usually means broken ribs, possibly a punctured lung, maybe cardiac contusion, or worse.
Routine, really.
When I look up, Aera is staring at me with wide eyes.
“You have to go?” she asks.
“Yes. Emergency surgery.” I stand, already looking for where I left my shirt. “I’ll have Derek come stay with you -”
“Wait.” She holds up a hand, her expression confused. “Dr. Hale? Surgery? W-what do you do?”
I pause, shirt in hand, and realize with sudden clarity that I’ve never actually told her. She knows I have medical experience, but we’ve never discussed specifics.
“I’m a cardiothoracic surgeon,” I say simply. “General and cardiac. That was the hospital. They need me for an emergency case.”
Her mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. “You’re a... Do you do heart surgery?”
“Among other things.” I pull my shirt on, already running through my mental prep checklist. “Cardiac, thoracic, general surgery when needed.”
“But you...” She’s staring at me like she’s seeing me for the first time. “How do you... where did you...”
“Medical school. Residency. Fellowship.” I grab my keys from the counter. “Standard path.”
“Standard path,” she repeats faintly. “You’re a heart surgeon.”
“Yes.”
“A literal heart surgeon.”
“Is there a problem?” I’m genuinely confused by her reaction now.
“You remove hearts!” Her voice has gone slightly high-pitched. “For a living! Professionally!”
Oh. Oh, that’s what she’s processing.
I can’t help it. I laugh. The look on her face is priceless, the realization dawning that my surgical skills aren’t just some macabre hobby.
“Aera,” I say, moving back to cup her face. “Did you think I just learned how to remove a heart from the internet?”
She opens her mouth, closes it, then: “I don’t know! I didn’t think about it! You’re the Black Heart Killer, you kill people and take their hearts, and I just assumed -” She breaks off, shaking her head. “Oh my God. You’re an actual doctor.”
“A very good one,” I add, because it’s true. “One of the best in the city, actually.”
“This is insane.”
“So you keep saying.” I press a quick kiss to her lips. “I have to go. Derek will be here soon. Don’t leave the apartment, don’t answer the door for anyone except him, and -”
“Dominik.” She grabs my hand. “Be careful.”
The concern in her eyes makes something warm bloom in my chest. She’s still processing the revelation, still shocked by the reality of who I am, but she’s worried about me.
“Always am, Little Lion.” One more kiss, deeper this time. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. And we’ll talk about the Plan B situation then, alright?”
She nods, still looking slightly dazed.
I grab my jacket and head for the door, but pause with my hand on the handle. “Aera?”
“Yeah?”
“The chicken parmesan. Did you like it?”
A small smile curves her lips. “It was perfect.”
“Good.” I flash her a grin. “Same recipe I use for my marinara sauce when I’m preserving hearts. Figured I should put those skills to good use.”
Her shocked expression follows me out the door, and I’m still laughing as I take the stairs down two at a time.
A heart surgeon. She really didn’t know.
The absurdity of it all is almost too much. She fell in love with a serial killer who removes hearts, and never once questioned where I learned the anatomical precision required.
My brilliant, analytical Little Lion, overthinking everything except the most obvious answer.
The violence still simmers beneath my skin as I drive toward the hospital, the need to hunt and kill and protect warring with my professional obligations. But right now, I have a patient who needs me - someone whose heart I’ll restart rather than stop.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
Later, I promise the darkness. Later, we hunt. But right now, we save a life.
Just to prove we still can.